


HC SVNT DRACONES

by WingedWolf121



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: (eventually...) - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arthur Lite, Arthurian, BAMF Merlin (Merlin), Canon-Typical Violence, Dragons, Established Relationship, M/M, Merlin's Magic Revealed (Merlin), Multi, POV Multiple, Protective Knights (Merlin), Season/Series 04, a truly unfortunate amount of historical research
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:02:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23850502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingedWolf121/pseuds/WingedWolf121
Summary: When Arthur vanishes from Camelot, the knights must set out on a quest across the continent to find him, one that leads from the forests of Albion to the far isles of the Middle Sea. Meanwhile, Camelot lies unprotected and vulnerable to invasion by Morgana, and even greater dangers may threaten the soul of Albion itself.Season 4 AU set vaguely between A Hunter's Heart and Herald of the New Age.
Relationships: Freya/Gwaine (Merlin), Gwen/Lancelot (Merlin), Knights of the Round Table & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Knights of the Round Table & Merlin (Merlin), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 41





	1. The Burned Witch

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes you start writing a fic while you're a sophomore in high school but then undergrad hits you and you don't have any time, then you go to grad school instead of taking a vacation, then a global pandemic hits and suddenly you have time to go back through your old files and work on finishing it. 
> 
> Warnings: This fic is extremely Arthur Lite for a very long time. It's 90% a love letter to the knights of Camelot, 10% a S4 fix-it. Established merthur, some implied unrequited merwaine (no more than canon!), and lots of magic and prophecy and trekking across a somewhat historical 6th century Europe. I tagged for canon-typical violence, but some of the violence is somewhat more heightened than BBC "no blood on the swords" Merlin would in fact permit.
> 
> The title comes from the phrase "hic sunt dracones" ("here there be dragons") the famous warning about what lurks in the edges of the map. Fun fact, this phrase is actually from the early 16th century, FIRMLY into the Early Modern era, and only appears on like, one map! Nevertheless, I am co-opting it for my faux-medieval fantasy epic.

When Agravaine grew up, magic was, if not a normal part of life, an accepted one. There had been a sorcerer at the Cornwall who conjured butterflies at feasts, and peddlers hawked charms and amulets in the streets by Tintagel. He did not share the same idiotic, ignorant fears as the Pendragon king whom Ygraine had wed, and he prided himself that he was too intelligent to tremble at the mere presence of a witch.

All the same, he was deeply uneasy. This cave was a dank hole in the earth, all worms and cold dirt. There were no furnishings or signs that someone lived there — Agravaine had to use a rock for a seat, and even that was covered in grey lichen that seemed to squirm beneath him. The light from his torch, stuck in the ground beside him, was all that illuminated the den.

Still, he had promised his Lady he would seek out the Burned Witch, and so he set his teeth against the goosepimples on his arms and did not draw his sword.  


Morgana claimed that this woman was the most powerful of those who still remembered the old ways. Agravaine thought that any woman with more power than his Lady ought to have been able to at least find herself a hut above-ground instead of living here. 

He also thought that Morgana would have made a better emissary than him, but the witch was said to have a vendetta against Pendragons. He could scarcely imagine why.

He could only hope that she hated Arthur worse than Morgana.

She sat naked across from him, legs crossed and arms limp in her lap. There was no seduction in her manner. This witch was less than human. Her flesh was charred black as coal and hung loose off her bones, a corpse held together only by a hatred of the Pendragon regime that must have burned hot as the fires of the Purge.

Agravaine was intimately familiar with the feeling. In the years after Igraine’s death, he might have flung himself from the battlements where they’d played as children if his hatred for her husband hadn’t kept his blood afire. 

It was a hatred which they held in common, and one which, in the absence of Uther, who had always been surrounded by guards and a fine swordsman besides, would need be satisfied by his far more foolish son.

“You mean to kill Arthur Pendragon,” the witch rasped. She was sitting in the dirt. Worms writhed over her thighs and her calves, and tiny beetles nestled in what Agravaine supposed had once been toes. She had no eyes, and her mouth was a gaping hole in her skull, as black inside as out.

“Don’t you?” 

“I am a husk living in the deadest patch of earth in Albion,” she responded. In truth, Agravaine questioned even calling this creature a woman. No doubt her feminine parts had burned with the rest of her, either in the early days of the purge, during the mass-burnings, when corpses were tossed in the ravines behind Camelot for the animals to devour, or later, when Uther led his knights to hunt users of magic like sport. Morgana hadn’t been able to explain her origins, only that she was powerful. She had to be, to have clung to life, even in this form. “I suck enough magic from the roots of the trees to keep myself alive, no more. My reach does not extend above the ground.”

“My Lady has no such problem,” Agravaine said. “And yet each attempt we have made on the King’s life has failed.”

“Poison him.”

“His servant tastes his food, and Arthur would fall into a red rage if the boy came to any harm.” Morgana would welcome Merlin’s death, but they both knew better than to infuriate Arthur. His Highness was curiously protective of the whelp.

The woman burst into croaking laughter. It sounded like bats wings fluttering. “Would he now?”

Agravaine clenched his fist. “The boy doesn’t matter. Can you kill the prince?”

“No.”

“Then the tales Morgana heard of you were grossly exaggerated. He is one mortal warrior.” Agravaine wished he believed his own words. There were moments when Arthur’s luck seemed nothing short of divine, and it frightened Agravaine deep in his heart.

“I don’t deny that,” the witch rasped. “Arthur Pendragon is a mewling infant who stumbles along with his head bobbing side to side, sure to blunder into peril no matter where his idiocy takes him. But he is guarded by more power than you fools know.”

“The knights are formidable,” Agravaine agreed grudgingly. He hadn’t been half the swordsman Sir Gwaine was when he was that age, nor as strong as Sir Percival, nor as quick as Sir Elyan, nor as steady as Sir Leon. “But the guards are incompetent, and he must sleep. He’s surely as vulnerable in bed as any man.”

“But neither you nor your lady dare stab him while he sleeps.” She chuckled again. “It seems this Pendragon has a fire his father never managed. No matter. I speak of a higher power than mortal guards.”

“Emrys.” Agravaine’s mouth twisted around the word. He’d heard Morgana whisper it in her sleep, incant it to her sacred fires a dozen times, trying to summon a face. The magic resisted her, always.

“Emrys,” she agreed. “Kill Arthur Pendragon, and the rage of Emrys will break over you as thunder and lightning, and make your fear of his knights like a bruised kneecap to a split skull. And it would be for naught, besides.”

“What?”

“Killing Arthur Pendragon could be done,” she said. Her fingers twisted, knucklebones scraping against each other. “I can think of beasts which would flay him open, schemes which would lure him unarmed from his bed, poisons which would burn up when they touched the blood of his servant but seep into Arthur and destroy him. And it would be of no consequence. The moment his soul slipped from his body, a squalling infant with golden hair and dear Ygraine’s eyes would be born somewhere else in Albion, and in twenty years he would be at Emrys’ side again, riding into Camelot to reclaim the land.”

“I don’t…”

“Of course you don’t understand.” Her voice was scornful. “I know more magic than you or your precious Pendragon spawn could possibly conceive, more than you could study if you had a thousand years and Ashkanar himself to teach you, and I know that Arthur’s soul was not meant to rest idle in this age. He will be reborn, and you will never even see it, because you will be dead before his bones cool.”

Agravaine felt the magic in the cave them. It thrummed against him, and Agravaine could feel bruises blooming over him as veins burst and his bones creaked. It was old, old as this sorceress had to be, older than Uther’s reign and older than whatever well of power Morgana tapped. 

“Then there is no hope?” Agravaine asked. His throat was curiously dry.

“I did not say that. A soul cannot be reborn if it has ceased to be.”

“Speak like a mortal.”

“I am not mortal. Would you have me speak in a language I cannot fathom?” She did not wait for Agravaine’s reply, which was just as well. “Do you know of the Catha?”

“A brotherhood of traitorous me,” Agravaine said. Alator’s betrayal still rankled.

“A tiny sect of a far greater body of magic,” she rasped. Agravaine’s eyes fixed for a second on the purple stump of her tongue, and he hastily looked away. “They hail from an isle in the Great Sea, somewhere even Uther could never touch. Deep magic rests there. It is from there that the Catha draw their power. Take Arthur’s soul from his body and throw it into their fires. The flames will devour him, and the child will be born with lungs full of ash and shriveled insides. The king will reign but once.”

“And Emrys?”

“Concern yourself with Arthur’s soul. Emrys will take care of himself.”

Agravaine shook his head. “And Arthur’s body?”

“A body is nothing but blood and bones. A soul is far more dangerous. Just make sure you get rid of it. Send it far from the soul, and watch Emrys scramble to find them both. The life of the king will wither away, and when the soul burns, the body’s death knell will sound.” 

“How does one…” Agravaine swallowed. This was repulsive in the extreme. “I did not know that the soul and the flesh could be unbound. And I have never heard my Lady mention such an act.”

“I expected nothing less. Morgause knew nothing, and neither did her sister, no matter that she likes to fashion herself a high priestess.” The burned witch let out another, sharper, laugh. The sound was like old leather breaking. “I know. I studied before the Purge and before Uther’s madness was clear, when the old ways still held sway and those who knew the darkest secrets still lived.” She smiled. She had to twist her entire jaw, and a tiny ragged piece of flesh slipped off her cheek to fall into the black dirt, but she still smiled. “And I was once a teacher.”

When Agravaine emerged from the cave, it was pouring rain, and thundering. He cursed. It had been dusk when he rode in, and it had looked to be a clear night. It was lucky that the burned witch’s words were seared into his mind, not written on parchment. Now it was almost dawn, and his horse had wrenched free of its bridle and galloped off.

He cursed again. It would be a long, wet, slog back to Camelot. For a brief moment, he wished that they could have stabbed Arthur in his bed while he slept, instead of this muddling with old magic and schemes.

\--

It was a combination of the thunder and Merlin’s unrest which woke Arthur Pendragon. He grunted and groped for Merlin, who should have been drooling on his shoulder and making his arm fall asleep. 

He opened his eyes and frowned when he realized that both of his arms were perfectly awake, and Merlin was curled up with his back to Arthur, shivering violently despite having stolen all the blankets. 

“Merlin.” Merlin twitched, but kept mumbling. “Merlin!”

Merlin didn’t wake, still caught in the throes of some nightmare. Arthur sighed and moved closer, catching one of Merlin’s wrists in his hand and pressing him down. He’d had to wake his knights from nightmares before, while sharing tents on campaign. It was a task he understood, if not one he enjoyed. And it was different with Merlin.

“Merlin,” Arthur said softly. He brushed strands off black hair off Merlin’s sweaty forehead. “Wake up.”

Merlin woke with a gasp. “What – Arthur?”

“You were having a nightmare.” Arthur glanced at the windows. The storm had stopped dead, and his breathing seemed to echo in the suddenly silent room. 

“Oh,” Merlin mumbled. He rubbed at his face. Arthur sighed and shifted closer, to wrap an arm around Merlin’s shoulders. He was even more pallid than usual, and looked like he might vomit. “Sorry.”

“Happens to the best of us.” Arthur hesitated. “D’you want to er, talk about it?”

“I don’t remember it.” Merlin said. He scrubbed at his eyes. “There were worms.”

“You were moaning like that for worms?” 

“Shut up, they were…” Merlin frowned. “I don’t remember. It was unpleasant.”

“Worms.” Arthur flopped back on his back. “You wake me up in the middle of the night for worms.”

“Weird worms,” Merlin muttered. He curled up back next to Arthur. It had become his accustomed place after Gwen’s banishment. “Shut up.”

“I hadn’t said anything,” Arthur mumbled. 

“You were about to.” Merlin closed his eyes. Arthur glanced down at him and, after an instant’s hesitation, snuggled down next to him, pressing his face to Merlin’s shoulder and looping his arms around his lover. There were a few more hours before he would need to rise and begin King’s business. He would enjoy this time while he had it.

\--

The sun shone bright over Camelot that morning. It was a fine day in late summer, with a rich blue sky and a heat that spread over the entire castle, inescapable.

Merlin had fled to the cool chambers of the armory. The pleasant weather had banished his nightmares, and Arthur’s plate needed buffing. He meant to make it bright enough to reflect the crowds when they cheered for him, next tourney.

“Merlin!” Gwaine leaned in the doorway, grinning. “Why are you stuck inside on this gorgeous summer day?”

“Polishing.” Merlin held up Arthur’s breastplate. 

Gwaine strolled into the room and flung himself onto the bench beside Merlin. He lazily flicked a speck of dirt off the breastplate. “I’d have thought you’d be attending Arthur.”

“It’s cooler in the armory.”

“You had a fight with Arthur?” Gwaine asked wisely. Merlin shrugged. Gwaine hmmed, but for once made no further comment. Merlin was glad of it. The fight had been foolish, and not something Merlin wanted to relive, even with Gwaine.

“Shouldn’t you be training with Arthur?” Merlin asked instead.

“The King had a special counsel session with his uncle.” Gwaine grinned and stretched himself out properly, kicking a breastplate off the end of the bench so he could put up his feet.

“That was Elyan’s, and Leon runs training when Arthur’s gone.”

“It was Elyan’s?” Gwaine settled into his languor, his feet dangling off the end of the bench. “Remind me to hide it in the stables later. You’re right, it is much more pleasant down here.”

“You didn’t answer my question about Leon.”

“Ah, it’s too hot out to train,” Gwaine said dismissively. “We’d boil in our chainmail. And Arthur left orders for the same old drills. Two step, one step, turn on the heel, cut—that and the heat’s enough to drive you mad. We lesser knights staged a revolt and ran.”

Merlin snorted. “And when Leon comes to find you? With a mace?”

“It was my hope that you, Merlin, being as you are extremely quick-witted and known for your honesty and your knowledge of the inner workings of Camelot, might see fit to tell Leon I was elsewhere, while I hide behind the bench.”

Merlin rolled his eyes. “This is hiding?”

“Camouflage. Notice how the bench and I are both wearing brown?” Gwaine closed his eyes. “Wake me up if you hear him.”

“Shift, you can’t use my leg as a pillow.” Merlin nudged him.

“Ah, I suppose not.” Gwaine said sadly. “Don’t want to upset the King, after all.” He saw the look on Merlin’s face and grinned. “I’m only joking with you, Merlin.”

“You could bother Gaius,” Merlin suggested. The sickness that he’d felt ever since his nightmare was rising in his gut again, and Merlin shut his eyes for an instant.

“Cleaning a leech tank would be even worse than training.” Gwaine sat up and clapped Merlin’s shoulder. “I can be of use to you, Merlin!”

“You want to polish his gauntlets?”

“I was thinking that I could regale you with tales of me beating Arthur in different ways as you polished different pieces of armor,” Gwaine suggested. Merlin shook his head, lips pressed together. Gwaine leaned in closer, frowning. Seen closer, there was a certain mossy hue to Merlin’s cheeks, and just a trace of sweat on his brow. “You feeling alright, Merlin?”

Merlin took a deep breath. “Just a bit…nauseous.”

Gwaine hastily sat up. “And why are you in the armory?”

“Floor is so stained no one would notice if I didn’t clean up well.” Merlin rubbed his forehead. “So, I’d really advise just heading to the tavern and counting on the wenches to hide you in their skirts.”

“That’s the first place Leon would look.” Gwaine grabbed Merlin’s shoulders and hauled him up. “C’mon.”

Merlin’s head spun with a sudden dizziness. Had he been sitting that long? “What?”

“We’re going to Gaius.”

“I’m not sick—”

“You’re…” Gwaine peered at him. “Looking worse by the minute. We’re going to Gaius.”

“Armor.”

“The King will find someone else to polish.”

“Leon.”

“Ah, if it’s a choice between training and your death, I’ll take the former. I hate funerals.”

“Leech tank.”

Gwaine grimaced. “You had to remind me.” 

Nonetheless, he kept an arm around Merlin’s shoulders and moving towards the armory door.

“Gwaine.” Merlin pulled away. “I can walk myself, thanks.”

“If you bolt, I’ll restrain you,” Gwaine threatened. He hovered behind Merlin, prodding him irresistibly in the direction of Gaius’s chambers. “Didn’t anyone notice that you were dead on your feet this morning?”

“Gaius was up early,” Merlin mumbled.

Gwaine rolled his eyes. “Ah, of course. And I suppose that in your fight with Gaius you never mentioned you felt unwell?”

Merlin shrugged. With his head spinning, and Arthur being a prat, it hadn’t seemed important.

-

“There’s nothing wrong with you.” Gaius let Merlin’s eyelid fall shut. “Not that I can see.”

“Look at him!” Gwaine protested from his perch on Gaius’s workbooks. Merlin sat on the edge of Gaius’s bed, sweating and looking pale. “He’s clearly not well!”

“Yes, but it’s no ailment that I know of. He’s not afflicted with the sweating sickness, and his stomach is not bloated, nor his bowels cramped…”

“Oy!” Merlin objected.

“Something he ate?” Gwaine suggested, frowning.

“When I want your opinion as a physician, Gwaine, I will ask for it,” Gaius said. “Merlin’s had nothing but what I’ve cooked for him, and I’m perfectly well.” 

“Don’t you taste Arthur’s food for him?” Gwaine asked.

They all paused, suddenly uneasy.

“I think I’m going to pay a call on the King,” Gaius said. “Merlin, hand me my medical bag. Gwaine, stay with him and make sure he lies down.”

“If something’s wrong with Arthur, I’m coming with you.” Merlin stumbled to his feet.

“Relax Merlin, this may only be a passing illness you’ve caught through some bad luck, and if the King is truly ill, there is little you can do to help. Stay and rest.” Gaius waved his hands at him. “Go! Lie down!”

“I’ll keep him here,” Gwaine volunteered cheerfully. It barely took a push to have Merlin back on the bed, clutching at his stomach. It worried Gwaine more than he felt comfortably admitting out loud. “I am a knight of Camelot, helping the common people is my first duty, above all others.”

“Be sure to tell me how that goes with Leon,” Merlin muttered. Gwaine flicked his head. “Ow!”

“Leon has the utmost respect for Gaius. He must understand that I had no choice.” Gwaine stretched like a cat, trying to find a comfortable way to sit without destabilizing the stack of books. “Anyway, we can’t have you rushing around after Arthur and infecting the whole palace.”

“I suppose infecting you is fine,” Merlin said. His voice was faint.

“I have an iron constitution.” Gwaine gave up on being comfortable and knelt by Merlin’s bedside, to help him from Gaius’s bed to his own. If Merlin needed sleep, better that he do so in his own chambers, no matter how infrequently Merlin really slept there these days. “Go make yourself comfortable, have a nap. Gaius will be back soon to tell us that Arthur’s fine and probably annoyed at you for sending a court physician to interrupt his council meetings.”

\-- 

Merlin woke hours later, to the sound of voices outside his door. He pulled on his jacket and stumbled down the stairs, trying not to look light-headed. His mind felt clearer than it had all day – whatever the malady had been, it passed.

I’m telling you, I haven’t seen him,” Agravaine was saying. “There was no council meeting today, I was in my study reviewing the treaties with Queen Annis all morning.”

“So Arthur went out for a gallop, who can blame him for wanting to get out of the city?” Gwaine said. He stood squarely between the knot of people and Merlin’s chamber door, arms crossed defiantly.

“There are no horses missing from the stables, are you suggesting he walked from the city? Alone?” Agravaine asked pointedly.

“What’s going on?” Merlin asked.

Leon answered. “The King is missing. No one has seen him since he left training.”

“Unless you saw him,” Agravaine said, glaring at Merlin. “Or he indicated to you some hint of his intentions, some plan to hide in the castle? Gods know the Citadel alone is large enough for a single man to disappear in…”

“I haven’t seen Arthur since this morning.” Merlin looked from Gaius to Gwaine. “Last I heard, he was with you.”

“He never was,” Agravaine snapped. “Arthur had no plans to meet with me today, he was meant to be training.”

“All of you should relax,” Gwaine said. “Arthur will turn up, probably as soon as the heat cools off, and be horrified that the lot of you turned the castle on end looking for him.”

“No, a hot day wouldn’t keep Arthur off training,” Leon said. His worried eyes met Merlin’s. “Merlin, are you sure he said nothing to you?”

“Arthur was in a mood this morning,” Merlin said carefully. “We didn’t speak much.”

“A mood?” Gwaine asked.

“Kept muttering about going places and then saying he wasn’t going. He shouted at me to get out when I asked him what he was on about.” Merlin winced. “I thought he hadn’t slept well and was just grumpy.”

But there had been something wrong. There’d been some strange look in his eyes that morning after he ate, and he’d shouted at Merlin to get out, and Merlin had just blamed it on a lack of sleep, the same cause for which he’d blamed his own sickness. He wished he could remember his nightmare better. There had been a woman, wreathed all in red and fire.

“We should send search parties,” Merlin said.

“I have guards scouring the lower levels,” Agravaine said flatly.

“What about outside?”

“There are no horses missing,” Agravaine said dismissively. “Arthur wouldn’t walk to the woods, and wouldn’t be so foolhardy as to tell no one he was leaving the city.”

“I’m going to look around,” Merlin said quickly. “Check his favorite haunts.”

“I’ll go with you,” Gwaine said hastily, eying Leon, who would no doubt remember his desertion the second he stopped worrying about Arthur.

The two left. Gaius sighed deeply. “I’m not sure that I can be of much use here, gentlemen, and I’ve had many summons from the lower town. You know how injuries multiply in this weather.”

“By all means, go.” Agravaine dismissed him. “Tend to the people, we will concern ourselves with the king.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Gaius left, picking up his bag as he went. It left Leon and Agravaine standing alone in the room.

“My lord…” Leon said hesitantly. “You had guards search the Citadel an hour ago, and they found nothing.”

“The Citadel is large, Leon, and has many cracks which merit a second look. And…” Agravaine lowered his voice, though they were quite alone. “Should Arthur’s kidnappers have a conspirator in our midst, I did not want him to know the details of our search.”

“My Lord?” 

“Who would best know Arthur’s whereabouts? Who could pass him a false message telling him to go to the council room to be ambushed? Who has access to the keys to open every door along the outer walls? There is only one suspect.” Leon stared at Agravaine in puzzlement. “His manservant.”

“Wha-Merlin? Merlin?” Leon burst into laughter. He had to reach for the wall to stay upright. “M’lord, I mean, my lord Agravaine…”

Agravaine looked highly annoyed. “I didn’t mean to jest.”

“My Lord.” Leon wiped his eyes. “Merlin has served Arthur for years, he’s more trustworthy than most of Arthur’s council. If there’s any man in Camelot above suspicion, it’s him.” Leon made to clap Agravaine’s shoulder, remembered that he was the king’s uncle, and hastily withdrew his hand. “I will conduct a search of the walls myself to see if any doors have been forced, but Arthur knows the Citadel better than most. Perhaps Gwaine is right and he is simply hiding somewhere.”

“Bring your findings directly to me,” Agravaine said, still looking severely irate.

“Yes, my lord. Merlin the traitor…” Leon headed for the door, still guffawing. “I’d sooner believe in Merlin the sorcerer…”


	2. The Trail through the Trees

“Arthur had best be passed out in a field somewhere. If we find him, and he’s having a swim in some spring…” Gwaine made a violent gesture and cast a dark look at the gates, as if he expected Arthur to walk in at any moment.

“He wouldn’t go alone.” Elyan fanned himself with a hand. “Show some knightly spirit, Gwaine.”

“My knightly spirit wanes whenever we have to wear chainmail in summer.” He looked across the courtyard, at the crowds gathered by the water pump. “I think I can feel my horse sweating through the saddle.”

“That’s just because it has to carry you.” Percival walked up, leading his horse by the bridle. “The woods will be cooler.”

“They had better be.” Gwaine sighed. The heat hadn’t eased much since midday, and all of them were in full chainmail, as Leon insisted. Their scarlet cloaks hung heavy on their shoulders, with no breeze to move them. It was enough to make a man envy Merlin, who was standing across the courtyard talking to Gaius. He was only wearing a jacket, and didn’t have a heavy sword weighing down his belt.

\--

“Take the full bag, you don’t know what you’ll need,” Gaius said to Merlin, handing him the healing basket. “You restocked it just last week, it should have everything. If it’s only sunstroke…”

“Cool him down,” Merlin said quietly. “I know, Gaius. We’ve all got full waterskins, enough to last all day and into tomorrow.”

“I doubt you’ll need days,” Gaius said. “He was on foot, he can’t have gone far.”

“I hope not.” Merlin shook his head. “I should get back to the knights.”

“And many wait for me in the lower town.” Gaius sighed. “I’ll see you in a few days, Merlin. Try to keep Gwaine from killing Arthur when you find him.”

“No promises.” Merlin said, looking across the courtyard at the knights. Gwaine’s hair was already limp with the heat, and the knight was obviously irritable. “Arthur might have to fight off Elyan and Percival too.”

Gaius shook his head. “And be sure to look after yourself. If you’re still not well, they can search without you.”

“I’m not leaving Arthur out there alone.” Merlin settled the medicine bag more comfortably on his shoulder.

“Yes, I’ve come to expect that.” Gaius sighed again. “Good luck.”

“Camelot rests in your hands,” Merlin replied. They both glanced towards Agravaine, standing by the stairs and speaking to Leon. Even in the blazing sun, he still wore black.

“Do try to return soon,” Gaius said dryly. Merlin nodded with perfect understanding, and left Gaius for his horse, who stood by Gwaine and Elyan’s mounts with the placid calm of an animal who’d seen far too many wyverns to be upset by a bit of heat. She stayed calm as Merlin tied his medicine bag to her saddle and mounted, finally drawing the collective attention of the knights.

“Merlin, tell Percival that he should cover his arms,” Gwaine said immediately. “He’ll be beet red by sundown.”

Percival shrugged, just a bit smug. “I’m the coolest one here.”

“He has a point.” Merlin raised his hand over his eyes. “Why haven’t we left yet?”

“Leon is still talking to Agravaine.”

\--

“We may have to camp for the night,” Leon said. “But we should have the king back by sundown tomorrow, at the very latest.”

“Good.” Agravaine nodded approvingly. “I trust that Camelot’s finest will not disappoint.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Leon bowed his head. “The citadel is yours, until we return with Arthur.”

“Yes, heat riots and all.” Agravaine smiled wanly. “Thank the gods these are the last days of summer.”

“I had the captains double the guard until we return,” Leon said firmly. “The people of Camelot are used to a terrible summer, my lord—so long as the well runs steady, they will stay calm. You have nothing to fear.”

“Nonetheless, I will hope for your fast return.” Agravaine turned and began walking back up the steps into the castle, where it was cool and there were servants with endless supplies of iced wine.

They left the city at a gallop, scarlet capes flapping against their horses’ haunches. A few of the people of the lower town waved to them as they passed. They did not slow their horses, though Merlin had the queer feeling that they should have stopped a second to watch the common folk cheer, as if they would not hear such sounds again soon. Still, the city was hot, and it was a relief to escape into the fields, and even better, the forests.

It was cooler under the trees. They were thriving in the heat—there had been no drought this season, for once not because Merlin manipulated the clouds, and so a canopy of solid green was spread above them all, soaking up the sunlight. The ground beneath them was soft, and their horses’ hooves sunk deep in the loam.

There were no other tracks.

“Do we split up?” Elyan asked. “This forest rings the whole of Camelot; there are miles of ground to cover.”

“No.” Leon shook his head. “Merlin is the only one who’ll know how to treat him if he’s wounded.”

“I say we begin by checking the springs closest to the city,” Gwaine suggested.

“You just want to dunk your head in a watering hole,” Percival said. “Merlin, where would he go?”

Merlin blinked. “The forests by the Western gate. They have the most game.”

“We follow Merlin’s advice,” Leon said immediately, turning his horse’s head. Elyan and Percival exchanged looks, and Gwaine slapped Merlin’s shoulder.

“It’s good to have an expert on our King’s peculiar mind in the group. Gods only know what we’d have done if you two disappeared together.” Privately, Gwaine thought he would make sure to make a great deal of noise while looking.

Merlin ignored him, turning his horse to follow the other knights. Gwaine’s smile dimmed slightly.

The forest may have been more tolerable than the city, but the air was still sluggish. Merlin wished they could gallop, but the paths in the forest were none too stable, and it would strain the horses. Besides, there was a sense of stillness in the forest that he was hesitant to break, for fear that it would break them in return. 

“Spread out,” Leon ordered. “Don’t go so far that you can’t see the others.”

“His highness had better not be having a nap,” Gwaine muttered, peering around the trees. “Arthur! Percival, you shout, you’ve got bigger lungs.”

“No,” Merlin said sharply.

Leon, already halfway down a dry streambed, reigned in his horse. “Merlin?”

“Doesn’t the forest feel…unnatural?” Merlin twisted in his saddle. There was a discordant note hovering at the edge of his senses, and it made his teeth stand on end. His mare moved uneasily under him. When he put a hand on her neck to calm her, she was slick with sweat.

“We can’t just search for him silence,” Elyan said. “I don’t mind being stabbed in the service of my King, but I’d rather not it be him wielding the blade.”

“Merlin’s right,” Percival said abruptly.

“Eh?”

“Listen.” Percival raised a hand for quiet. “No birdsong.”

“Maybe they’re all in the shade somewhere,” Gwaine suggested.

Percival shook his head. “Birds sing in shadow and sun alike, and this is summer.”

They all paused. The forest was still, without a single leaf moving. The nerves in Merlin’s neck clenched.

“It may be sorcery,” Leon said. “Keep looking, but keep your swords out.”

“And do we whisper when we find him?” Gwaine grumbled, drawing his sword. He swung off his horse and began to walk, boots brushing past fern stalks. Elyan followed his lead, and Leon continued down the streambed. His horse’s hooves made cracks in the hard mud. Percival walked on top of the leaves with silent footsteps, eyes tracing the ground.

Merlin remained mounted, eyes shut. The discordance was jangling against his eardrums now.

“Here!” Percival called. “I found his tracks.”

“Where?” Merlin slid off the saddle and ran to Percival. The other knights were quick behind.

“Look.” Percival crouched. “The ferns are broken, and you can see the curve of a boot in the dust.”

“You’re sure that’s Arthur, and not some farmer who walked through?” Gwaine asked. He frowned down at the dirt.

“I’m sure.” Percival rose to his feet. “Merlin, bring my horse. We can follow his tracks from here.”

Merlin walked back to where Percival’s horse was standing with his mare, whinnying nervously. “Come on.” Merlin murmured, pulling them along. His mare shied back, whickering. “Come _on_.”

Gwaine cast a dark look at the surrounding trees. “The horses don’t like it here.”

“We were hunting in this grove just last week.” Leon pushed his sweaty hair back with one hand. His horse danced to the side and he had to grab the pommel of the saddle to steady himself.

“Then why isn’t there any game?” Elyan asked quietly.

“It doesn’t matter.” Leon gathered his reins in his hands. “We know Arthur passed this way and sorcery or no, we have a duty to find him. Lead on, Percival.”

**\--**

They were no closer to Arthur when dusk fell.

Leon reigned in his horse. “We should make camp.”

Merlin twisted around in his saddle. “No, we need to keep going.”

Percival stopped walking. He straightened himself, wincing as he stretched. “I can’t follow a trail in the dark.”

“We can light torches,” Merlin said flatly. He looked to Gwaine. “We can’t stop and rest while Arthur is still lost!”

“We can, and we will.” Leon swung off his horse. “Merlin, kindle us a fire—perhaps Arthur will find us.”

“But…” Merlin opened his mouth furiously, ready to protest that he could light a torch just as easily as a fire.

“Easy, Merlin.” Gwaine slid off his horse. “The King needs his rest, same as all of us. Particularly our horses.” He clapped a hand on Merlin’s knee. “And for all we know, he’s doubled back to Camelot already, and we’ll wake up in the morning to find him standing over us shouting about jumping to conclusions.”

Merlin stared down at Gwaine. “You honestly believe that?”

“I believe we can search no further tonight.” Gwaine shrugged. “Come on, I’ll help you collect kindling.” He shot Merlin a grin. “We can’t have Arthur show up only to discover that I let his manservant be eaten by wolves.”

“Every animal in this forest is huddled in a sheltered place,” Merlin said. “It’s as if they’re waiting out a storm.”

“Then the animals are fools.” Gwaine laughed. “There’s no storms coming this week—my feet would itch if there were.”

“For the love of god then, I hope the skies stay clear,” Elyan said, from where he was unsaddling his horse. “This forest feels foul enough without Gwaine taking off his boots.” He and Percival laughed as Gwaine made to throw a waterskin at them.

Merlin sighed and finally dismounted. He gave his mare an absent pat on the neck. “Are we still within Camelot’s borders?”

“I’m not sure. Gwaine, Elyan, come look at these maps.” Leon ordered, spreading two long rolls of parchment over his knees.

Gwaine clapped Merlin on the shoulder. “If a wolf attacks you, scream and run up a tree.” He joined Elyan at Leon’s side, expression sobering as they surveyed the maps. Percival, who had not travelled near so much, went to his horse and untied her reins from Merlin’s saddle. He began to unsaddle her with gentle hands.

Merlin quickly did the same, and left for firewood. He walked through the forest slowly, horribly aware of a sense of _wrong_ pulling at his senses. It made the hair at the nape of his neck stick out, and his heartbeat patter irregularly.

_We should not have stopped._ Merlin thought miserably, as he bent down to pick up pieces of dry wood.

When he returned to the clearing, the knights looked grim. Gwaine glanced at him from Leon’s side. “Bad news, Merlin. We’re half a day from the border of Mercia.”

“No fire.” Elyan added grimly. “Can’t risk a border guard seeing it.”

“What about Arthur finding us?”

“I doubt he’d like to find us dead.” Leon rolled up the map. “We have dried meat and fruit, we’ll make do without cooked food.”

“At least it’s starting to cool down,” Gwaine said. He settled back against a log, fingers linked behind his head. “And the skies are still clear.”

**\--**

They packed the camp that morning in grim silence. Gwaine’s halfhearted jokes about the heat being more bearable fell flat as the knights folded their cloaks and hid them in saddlebags, and Merlin quietly took them out, refolded them, and hid them more effectively. They rode at a walk, as before, while Percival tracked Arthur.

“He hasn’t stopped,” Percival said, at mid-day, when the sunlight through the trees turned the knight’s bare chainmail into blinding beacons.

“What?” Leon asked. Even he had been slipping into a doze as they plodded through the trees.

“His pace has been steady this whole time.” Percival brushed his hand across a patch of dirt. “I don’t think he ever stopped to sleep or eat, or drink.”

Leon glanced at Merlin.

“I can treat lack of water,” Merlin said. “As long as we reach him in time.”

“How are your antidotes?”

“I have all I’ll need,” Merlin’s fingers twitched as he tried to recall the pages in his spellwork that dealt with controlling bewitchments. If Morgana had taken Arthur, and somehow planted a Fomorrah in his head, he could not see why she would use it to simply send Arthur away. “And he’s alone?”

“He’s alone,” Percival said, with complete surety. “I’d have seen another set of tracks.”

“Keep going, then,” Leon said. “He’ll have to stop eventually.” By Leon’s tone, he remembered well that Arthur’s mule-headed obstinacy would keep him walking far past the point where a normal man would collapse.

They kept riding in silence as the late afternoon crept on them. Their camp that night was silent, and again without a fire.

The birds began to sing again on the next day of riding, and fresh breezes rustled the leaves around them. It was not a comfort to Merlin. If the enchantment had left the forest, it only meant that Arthur was further away.

“Did you taste that?” Gwaine asked.

Elyan turned to eye Gwaine. “Taste _what_?”

Gwaine held up his wrist. “The wind. We’re near the sea, check your skin. It should taste of salt.”

“Good gods.” Percival peered at his arm.

“We should ride faster,” Leon declared. “If Arthur is headed for the coastline, he might be looking to sail away.” He nodded to Percival. “Mark his trail, in case we need to return here.”

Percival stood up straight and reached above his head. He pulled a branch as thick as Merlin’s waist off the tree and forced it in between the slit of another two branches, so it pointed back to Camelot.

They galloped the rest of the way to the coast, until the trees thinned and they emerged at the top of a ridge, above a trading town, built around a line of docks that stretched into the barely sheltered harbor.

“By the gods,” Leon breathed. The sea stretched out beneath them. It was a vibrant blue that day, shining in the sunlight, and it went for as long as the sky. It was a calm day, so that the only ripples in the surface were the wakes of sailing ships, galleys that dwarfed the small houses clinging to the cliffs, even as the sea around them made them into flies in the sky. Percival gaped at it.

“It doesn’t go forever,” Gwaine said, looking down at the water. “The voyage across is short.”

“You’ve been?” Percival asked. He tore his gaze away shoot Gwaine a look that was half incredulity, half awe.

“Many times.” Gwaine shrugged.

“So have I,” Elyan added.

Percival shook his head. “I can’t imagine it.”

“We should start looking for Arthur,” Leon interrupted. He nudged his horse forward, down the path to the town. “Come on.”

They followed. Merlin went last, and thought about how all waters led to Avalon.

The docks were nearly deserted at this hour. According to Gwaine and Elyan, most ships set sail at dawn or midday, and those coming into the harbor might arrive at any time. Still, there was one captain still loading his ship with barrels of wine, and who agreed to talk to them after Gwaine flipped him a gold coin.

“We’re looking for a man,” Leon said.

“What sort?” The captain asked. He was short, and swarthy, and had a bristling black beard that might have had fleas. “And why?”

“He’s our friend.” Merlin stepped forward. “He was drinking last night and wandered away.” Merlin coughed and rubbed the back of his neck. “We’d rather find him before he wakes up and realizes that none of us went searching for him before noon.”

Leon shot him a rather impressed look.

“I do recall a young man.” The captain said, scratching at his beard. “Very obedient, glazed eyes…I thought he was a simpleton.”

“What did he look like?” Leon asked.

“Blonde hair, blue eyes. I suppose he was handsome, if you go for that sort. Big strong arms and shoulders. He was going up the gangplank to Letum’s ship, over at the West dock. I only noticed him because Letum doesn’t take passengers.”

“He must have been drugged,” Elyan muttered. He shot a glance at Merlin, who had been sick.

“Where is this ship?” Leon asked.

“Oh, it left port,” The captain said. “Right at dawn—they were casting off when I saw him.”

“Where were they sailing?”

“Letum’s a trader, he might’ve gone anywhere.” The captain shrugged. “He’d finished his trade up and down Albion’s coast and moved on.”

Leon looked dismayed.

“What was he carrying?” Gwaine interjected.

“Nothing so valuable as all that. Fox fur, some golden trinkets, nothing _magical_.” The man spat. “Thank the bloody Pendragons for that, and Camelot’s damned ability to reach all the way to the coast to kill our trade.”

“Could he have gone to the Middle Sea?” Gwaine asked. “That’s the best place to trade.”

“I suppose he might’ve,” The captain said. Gwaine flashed another gold coin. “His ship wasn’t fortified for ice. The Middle Sea or down the southern coast.”

“Then we find a boat to the Middle Sea,” Leon said firmly.

“For all the good it’ll do,” Gwaine muttered.

“What?”

“Leon, the Middle Sea’s as large as all Albion put together, and it holds a thousand different ports. _All_ of them trade in furs and trinkets,” Gwaine snapped. He shook his head. “He could be anywhere.”

“We cannot stay here.” Leon said. “Captain—where is your vessel headed?”

“Most boats for the middle sea have left.” The captain said. “The autumn storms will come soon. I’m sailing straight across the channel and holing up in Gaul until the sea is calm again.”

“Then who _is_ sailing out?”

The captain shrugged. “No passenger ships, for certain. Check the taverns, if you want to know.”

**\--**

The mood in the tavern that night was grim. They found a captain who would take them across the channel, but no further. Not even when Leon pulled a sack of gold from his saddlebags and dangled it under his nose, with Percival behind him, glowering and flexing his bare biceps. The captain claimed that the sailing season in these parts was very near done, and he would rather be a poor man with his ship intact than rich and dead on the seabed. Worse, he was the only man leaving.

“The ports in Albion are small,” Gwaine explained over his tankard. They were huddled around the fire in the inn. The sea crashed outside, somehow louder than it had been in daylight. “We have little to trade, compared to the continental harbors, and the Pendragon ban on magical goods drove away many foreign captains.”

“Camelot has no seacoast,” Elyan said bitterly. “And it still manages to exert such an influence. To the reign of Uther Pendragon” he said, his voice laced with sarcasm. Gwaine drank. Percival halfheartedly knocked tankards with them.

“I thought we’d be back by now,” he admitted before drinking. “I don’t like heading this far from Camelot.”

“Things are never simple with Arthur,” Gwaine said. He glanced to the side. “Isn’t that right, Merlin?”

Merlin didn’t respond. He was staring at the flames in the hearth, and had barely touched his mead. It was foreign, and thinner than the fare at home.

“Merlin,” Gwaine repeated.

Merlin’s gaze slid away from the coals. “We should have forced him to take us tonight.”

“Casting out at night is foolishness,” Elyan said.

“Unless you’re smuggling,” Gwaine added prosaically. Percival raised his eyebrows at him. Gwaine shrugged. “It’s not as it would be taking from the taxes of Camelot.”

“That doesn’t matter.” Merlin’s eyes went back to the fire. There was something dark in the blue. “Arthur is miles away, and we don’t even know for sure that we’re following him in the right direction. We should have gone faster.”

“It’s not as if we can flash the crest and commandeer a vessel,” Elyan said. “I doubt the Mercian crown would sit quietly if it knew that Camelot’s finest were leaving Albion, let alone if he had a hint of the King’s absence.”

“Assuming they didn’t plan this.”

“You’re a bushel of sunshine tonight, aren’t you?” Gwaine lounged back in his seat. “You’ll get your King back, don’t worry.” He nudged Merlin’s calf. “Once that drug wears off, Arthur will swim back to Albion, and damn the winter storms.”

They all fell silent, remembering that Arthur had eaten nothing that Merlin hadn’t.

Leon interrupted them, sitting between Gwaine and Elyan with a fresh tankard. “I’ve found a stable for the horses. They’ll be safe there until we return.”

“That must have cost a pretty penny,” Gwaine muttered.

“I traded the gold on their saddles.” Leon said bluntly. “We’ll need the coin, if we want to barter a passage back.”

There was silence again, as every man there contemplated being trapped on the wrong side of the ocean, leaving Camelot kingless all winter.

Leon broke it again. “And I sent a bird back to Camelot. Agravaine will manage things there until we return.”

Merlin drained his cup.


	3. The Mad Queen Conquerer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I missed a week of updating because I...fully lost track of the days of the week. Sorry! 
> 
> I feel also that I should warn that this chapter is violent and sad, like most things involving Morgana in the later seasons.

The warning bell woke Gaius in the early hours.

The clanging echoed throughout the city, ringing against ancient stone walls and the deep castle caverns, reverberating through every street until no one in Camelot could remain asleep. Gaius heard it and stumbled from his pallet, pushing away his thin sheets and stumbling to the window in his nightshirt.

“Merlin,” he mumbled groggily. It was half worry, half accusation. But Merlin would be with Arthur at this time of night, and if he was not sound asleep he surely could not be doing anything that merited waking all of Camelot…it took Gaius two steps in his bare feet on the cold stone floor to recall that the King was missing, the knights were gone, and Merlin was gone with them.

He went to the window, unfinished prayers jumbling through his mind. _Let it have been a simple robbery, let it have been a fight on the wall, let it have been a mistake…_ but the warning bells were made of heavy stone, and it took no little effort to bring them to life. Neither petty crime nor accidents could prompt their thunder.

Gaius reached the window and stared down at the city in dismay.

There were fires burning in the lower town. Soldiers small as ants milled about the courtyard far below, and he saw moonlight flash against blades as the guards battled. There were servants fleeing and being cut down as they ran, and dark stains on the flagstones.

Gaius, who had seen invasions before, looked to the walls. There was no battle there. Those who ran along the ancient fortifications of Camelot walked like wolves, not like men under siege. And the great hunters of Camelot were long gone from the city.

Gaius turned and fled. He did not stop to pick his carefully folded robes from his wardrobe nor to slide on shoes. He ran as well as he was able, joints aching with every step he took, painfully reminding him why he had needed an apprentice all those years ago.

He ran, his white nightshirt fluttering around his chest and legs, and was not stopped. Not by the maids, either those who were fleeing or those who had snatched up brooms to fight with and heavy chamberpots to fling from citadel windows. Not by the wounded, who could have rightfully claimed him. Not even by the child servants, who were finding crannies in the walls in which they might hide until their elders came to claim them. Gaius might have been a ghost.

That was good. That suited his needs well enough.

In pain, and with the city falling below him, Gaius made for the rookery. He was no fool. The best defenders of Camelot were gone, and an army was invading—there was nothing to do but to call them back. Or warn them, at least.

The tower of the rookery was one of the highest in Camelot. It in itself was not far from Gaius’s rooms—like himself, it provided a service vital to all those who lived within the citadel’s walls—but the steps that led to the tower were many. Gaius’s breathing grew ragged as he climbed. His feet were sore. He thought one of his toenails had torn, for there was liquid sliding between his toes. For sure he had not trod in a pool of blood—as of now, the Citadel remained untaken. No matter what slaughter went on in the lower town, the nobles of Camelot, those who could summon allies and call to their families for aid, were yet safe.

As of now, the kingdom was safe.

His lungs burned. The smoke rising from below was scratching at his throat. His knees and his elbows were on fire, but he must keep walking. When he had summoned the knights, he could collapse beneath the bird cages until the smell of excrement forced him to move, but for now he must keep climbing.

There was sweat dripping in his white hair, but no tears. Gaius had served the Pendragon family for so many years, and done so much worse than simply walk up the tower steps to the rookery. He would manage this service well enough, and be grateful that no more was asked of him.

Gaius finally saw the door to the rookery before him. It was cracked open, so that the emblem, the golden dragon of Camelot with wings spread in full flight, gilded onto the strong wood, was half in shadow. Gaius let out a gasp of relief. He had not been the only one to think of summoning their defenders, and he would not need to manage the strong messenger birds alone.

He stepped forward, pushing open the door.

“Friend, let me…” The greeting died on his lips.

The man within the rookery was not dressed in the livery of Camelot’s servants, or of her guards. He was a tall soldier dressed in black and his hands were bloody, closed around the neck of a white bird.

“What have you done?” Gaius croaked. His breath was too short for accusations, for calls for help, even for a question of _they were birds, why did you kill them all, they were only birds._ It was a foolish remonstration, when men and women and children were like dying floors below them, and yet…

The rookery had been designed with intent. The cages hung off tall, circular, walls, connected by ropes that allowed a person to lower down any cage of their choosing, whether for hunting birds or for messenger doves. There were wide windows all around, angled to keep rain out but allow in long beams of natural air and light, so that the birds in their cages could imagine flight. It was airy, and if not quite beautiful, a functional room.

It had become a charnel hose. Cages lay smashed on the tower floor, ropes cut. Feathers and blood coated the floor and the walls. Gaius stared down at the creatures who had served just as well as he had. Most had died in their cages, by a longsword blade thrust through the bars. Others must have tried to escape, and had their necks snapped.

There would be no messages sent from Camelot tonight.

Gaius was staring at the dead mass of feathers in the man’s hand when two more grabbed him around the shoulders. The soldier dropped his kill. It fell to the floor solid as a stone, and the man stepped towards Gaius with his sword drawn. Gaius was likely far easier prey than some of the greater hunting falcons.

“Wait,” one of those behind him said. “Are you the healer?” He shook Gaius, as if rattled bones would provoke a faster answer.

“Yes,” Gaius said. “Yes. I am the physician.”

“We can’t kill him,” his captor said to the man who’d killed the birds. “She wants him for herself.”

_She._ Gaius thought. Then, _of course. Who else._

They dragged him down the tower far faster than he had ascended. Gaius had not thought himself so frail, yet they half-carried him down the steps, one man propping up each of his armpits, so his bloody toes painfully battered the steps. Neither spoke to him, and as they walked the halls, which had grown far quieter while Gaius was laboring up the stairs, he realized that the Citadel had fallen.

_So a kingdom can fall in the time it takes an old man to climb a flight of stairs._

They took him to the main hall, and flung him at the foot of the throne.

Gaius knew who would be there, and yet it pained him all the same when he lifted his eyes.

Morgana sat the throne differently than she once had, sprawling over the seat rather than sitting straightbacked and proud. But that came as no surprise. Where before, Morgana had had a golden sister at her side, she now had Agravaine, dressed all in black and looming over her shoulder like some sort of bloated bat.

“Gaius,” Morgana said softly. “How good of you to join us.”

“We found him in the rookery,” one of the guards reported.

Morgana’s eyes snapped to the man. “Did he send out a bird?”

“The birds are dead, your highness. Just as you commanded.” The guard wore the black livery of the DuBois family. Gaius thought of when Ygraine had first come to Camelot, and how her men had worn black, with her all in white and gold in the middle. Somehow, then, the color had looked noble.

“Good,” Morgana breathed. “Good. No one yet knows.”

“They may soon, your highness,” Agravaine said. “There may have been those outside the city who heard the warning bell, or inside who escaped.”

Morgana twisted around like a viper. “Gaius rang the bell?”

“I am told that it was a stableboy,” Agravaine said. “We took his hands.”

“Stableboys,” Morgana muttered darkly. “ _Servants._ Rout the serving quarters for his family and have them publicly hanged.”

“Yes, your highness.” Agravaine said. He glared at the guard. “You. Search the servant’s quarters for these people.”

Gaius looked up at Morgana. “My lady, please—”

“ _Your highness_ ,” Morgana spat down at him. Gaius could feel her anger wash over him like ocean waves. “You will give me the same dues you gave my traitorous father, physician.”

“I gave your father counsel.” Gaius tried to make his voice strong. It was difficult. He had given Uther advice in steady, unwavering, tones a thousand times, but he had never had to do it from his knees. “Let me give you the same.”

“Counsel?” Morgana stared at him. Then she laughed. “ _Counsel_? Did you hear that, Agravaine? Gaius the physician would give me _counsel_.”

“I have often...”

“You advised Uther once.” Morgana waved a hand, as if batting a fly, and whispered a word. Her eyes flashed gold. The force of the blow send Gaius crashing fully to the floor, bloodying his lip. He lay there, prone and old, as Morgana rose to her feet. “And you advised _me_ once.”

It had not been once. It had been a thousand times. From when she was a child, come to Uther’s court as his new ward, terrified and alone in a new home that was utterly unlike Gorlois’s seaside castle, through adolescent pains and feverish dreams, to when she was a young woman who lit curtains on fire. Gaius wondered when his advice had gone so wrong.

“I...” _I let you play beneath my bench when you were a child._ “I do not think you should kill the boy’s family.”

“Why? Because the knights will be angry?” Morgana stood, and looked down at him. She seemed taller than the very towers of Camelot as she glared down at him, a face pale as death. “The knights are _gone_. They will not return to save you.”

She had plotted their leaving. Of course. When had his wits got so slow?

“And the king?” Gaius asked, softly.

Morgana spread her hand, face twisting in fury. Pressure began to grow against Gaius’s back, pressing him into the stone floor. His bones would undoubtedly break before the floor. “Arthur is _not king_.”

_Is_. He was alive then. Gaius breathed out a soft prayer of thanks, though he knew not to whom. He could not breathe in again.

“You’re going to kill him?” Agravaine asked.

“Do you object?” Morgana responded silkily.

“No,” Agravaine said. “But I think you should burn him.”

“Oh?” Morgana released Gaius. He gasped, breathing deep. The air in Uther’s—Arthur’s— _Morgana’s_ throne room was cleaner than the air in the rest of the palace. It was at the very heart of the castle, and it was heavy with secrets and old madness, not smoke and blood.

“Burn him,” Agravaine repeated. “He was dear to Uther and Arthur both—let the people see him blacken and know that the old order is going up in smoke. They’ll lose their hope in heroes then.”

Morgana’s head tipped to the side, considering. “Would you like that, physician?”

“I have never experienced it, my lady,” Gaius said quietly, more to the floor than to her.

“ _Your highness_ ,” Morgana spat. “Perhaps it is no less than you deserve. You stood by while thousands burned in the Purge.”

“I did not want to die.” Gaius began to move his arms again, to try to lever himself up so he could at least kneel before her, if not look her in the eyes.

“It would have been just.” She surveyed him. “It would do the people well to see their only remaining hero burn.”

_I am their hero._ Gaius thought. _Gods help me, I am an old man who can barely walk back to his chambers unaided, and I am all these people have._ He put his hands firm on the flagstones, and pushed himself to his knees. They ached as he rested his weight on them. “Your highness?”

“Speak, hypocrite.”

“I am Camelot’s only physician.” Gaius glanced at Agravaine. A week ago, he had been giving this man medicine for his bowels. “I have no equal within the city, and winter brings black toes and rot.”

“Are you trying to plead your value now?” Morgana laughed disdainfully. “I am a High Priestess. I do not fall to mortal sickness.”

_You lie_. “My concern was for the health of the populace, my—your highness.” It was hard to force out the title, while she sat on Arthur’s chair.

“Do you accuse me of not caring for my own people?” Morgana asked softly. Gaius bowed his head. He noticed that her feet were bare, and dirty.

“No, your highness.”

“He will spread lies among them.” Agravaine said warningly. “Kill him now, and be done with this.”

“Don’t you _dare_ give me orders,” Morgana snarled at him. He flinched back, afraid. Morgana returned to her throne, throwing herself violently onto the unpadded seat. “Throw him in the dungeons,” she ordered the guards. “Perhaps I will kill him in the morning.”

Two guards wrapped their arms around him and hauled him to his feet. Gaius was absurdly grateful. He could never have risen on the power of his own two feet. Morgana watched him with narrowed eyes as they dragged him away, her fingers tapping at the arms of the throne. Agravaine’s face was drawn.

Gaius could see very little of the palace as they went. The door to the dungeons was very near the place Uther had often given judgment, but they passed traces of fighting all the same. There were blood smears on the walls.

When they hurled him into the dungeons, Gaius lay on the floor for only a moment before crawling to the corner. They had not thought to manacle him, knowing no doubt that he was old and hurt and could not dream of escaping. He could only huddle in the corner and pull the straw about him, and be grateful that someone under Arthur had kept it fresh.

But for his life, he could not sleep.

He could not summon Merlin and the knights back. Morgana knew that the knights threatened her, though perhaps not that _Merlin_ was a far greater danger to her, and she had acted accordingly.

Arthur, then. He must find what she had done with Arthur. With Arthur back, there would be no need to summon knights, the common people themselves would take up arms and rally around him. They might be outmatched by these soldiers, but with Arthur leading them they would simply overwhelm the men Agravaine had summoned, no matter how many died in the attempt.

Many _would_ die, no doubt.

But Morgana, it seemed, already planned to start her own reign with executions. Death had come to Camelot, no matter what Gaius did.

Gaius thought of the girl who used to steal food for the poor, and who had shouted Uther into lowering taxes and opening the citadel to refugees from the outer villages. He would have wept, if he had the strength.

**Author's Note:**

> Weekly updates :)


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